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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24907903">The Long Way Home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/stagprince/pseuds/stagprince'>stagprince</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, The Y e a r n i n g</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:29:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,457</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24907903</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/stagprince/pseuds/stagprince</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylvain lives by himself as a bachelor Margrave of House Gautier, his singular rebellion from the plans his father made for him. Felix, despite having made peace with Dimitri, could never be the man his brother was destined to be; he could not step into the duties required by house Fraldarius and instead wanders the countryside a rogue swordsman for hire - known as a man of legendary talent and skill. But as they grow older and when the months become extremely bitter and make travel more difficult, Felix has fallen into a routine of happening upon Sylvain’s doorstep to spend the winter months with him. Sylvain knows it is fleeting - Felix only stays while the snow outside is deep, and the world dark. But sometimes he wishes he would stay. Sometimes he wishes he was brave enough to leave himself. Maybe, one day he will be.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi thank you for reading this fic! I hope you enjoy it - we have laughter, tears, miscommunication and extensive yearning ahead! </p><p>The art I've included is by https://twitter.com/deerghast on twitter, who is incredibly talented and you should definitely check out! They kindly allowed me to feature it here. In truth, I've had it in my WIP document for this fic and every time I look on the way Felix is very fondly gazing at Sylvain, 100 years are added to my life. The picture is actually what inspired me to think on what their lives would be like, far off into the future! </p><p>I would also like to thank my friend Ren who tirelessly worked on Beta-ing the HELL out of this story and helped me with some of the most difficult dialogue and scene setting elements. There would be no humorous undertone without their generous help and support, only mopey atmospheric elements and staring out windows so I am undying grateful to them!!!!</p><p>Shout out to Mem who cast their eyes upon this and did not recoil in horror, and Blue who has been endlessly cheerful and excited to read anything i manage to shovel out! And to you too, dear reader!</p><p>Theres more to come, and I hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>When the last of the rose gold leaves crumple and fall to the earth, Sylvain knows he will come. The true chill of winter begins to settle in Gautier manor in the fresh falling of the first snow upon the grounds, leaving the window panes fogged and frost licked.<br/>
<br/>
Sylvain waits, feeling the hours pass as slow as the drip of candle wax. He has reports to send to the King on the recently quelled raids at the border of Sreng but it was nothing new; when winter sets over Faerghus like a pale shroud, an unspoken truce seals the border. It seems there is one thing both sides can agree on - fighting and dying on frozen foothills isn’t anyone's fervent wish. </p><p> </p><p>Regardless, he cannot tether the focus to write the missives. He is listless and fidgety, breathing little heat circles against the window pane to give fleeting glimpses of the grounds beyond. The view revealed is always the same - still brown grounds dusted in white snow like powdered sugar, with not a single lonesome figure trudging down the path. He pushes himself upright and relinquishes himself of duty for the afternoon - the small perks of being the Margrave. It does not cure the fog of thought that clings to him, cloying as morning mist.</p><p> </p><p>Sylvain walks the rest of the day through empty halls, lingering in the footsteps of ghosts. The Gautier manor is a centuries old house - his whole life was sunk into the wood and stone of it. As his fingertips trail the grain of the old banner railing, he can hear the laughter as he had run down the grand staircase with a dark haired youth chasing at his heels. While their father’s had politicked and convened with the king, they had tussled in the grass of the grounds outside, along with the royal heir. </p><p> </p><p>Together, they had survived the gauntlet of boyhood here. It's like a sticky residue, the sap seeped from an old maple tree; in amber stained moments he see’s windows drawn closed as news of the The Tragedy had spread. After that, in small ways the joy seemed to seep from the house - it was replaced by a dark, thinly veiled tension that kept brother’s and old friend’s at arms length alike.<br/>
<br/>
He shakes his head, unsticking from such murky depths and pushes forward. Finally, his thoughts snag  in the honey gold hue of winter just past - Sylvain seeks the warmth of that evening, where he had turned to <em> him </em> and smiled soft and gentle one last time, just before he left. </p><p> </p><p>But that afternoon, he stumbles only into the weak day ending sunlight. He’s left with the dust motes and daydreams as he pushes closed the thick curtains.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
In the afternoon he takes a ride; his old destrier could use the exercise and as he pulls on his riding tunic he notes with some chagrin, that he could as well. His mount huffs as they set off into the brisk autumnal sunset, and he feels the sting of the cool wind on his cheeks as they race across the grass. They move together as a single, coursing unit - all that is missing is the weight of the lance in his hand. He wonders if he misses it.<br/>
<br/>
They take the long way up to the gate of the grounds following the tree lined path. Round every trunk Sylvain looks, hopeful. Maybe he would be leaning up against a tree, easy and breathless taking a moment of rest after the long trek; ready to walk those final few steps towards the manor.<br/>
<br/>
As he rides with no sight of him, his thoughts turn more grim. Sylvain feels the twist in his gut at the idea of finding him limping, dragging a wounded leg, or clutching at a bloodied patch on his tunic. Those were the most bitter of his nightmares, the kind he would wake from panting and sweating in the humid summer nights. They came with a bone weary knowledge that the life of a mercenary was not an easy one. </p><p> </p><p>But neither of these visions come true. </p><p> </p><p>Instead he watches alone as the sun fades slowly over the edge of the road that leads further down into town, and beyond to the great roads that connect the kingdom. It stains the trees in lemon yellow brilliance, and sends the silhouettes of branches grasping at him as he makes the lone ride all the way home.<br/>
<br/>
He dismounts and stables his stallion, before walking stiffly to the manor. It is run by a skeleton crew; Margrave Gautier prefers a quieter house when not entertaining, or venturing to Fhirdiad for parties and royal decrees. Sylvain made many trips a year - anything to escape the silence of the long yawning hallways. When he’s in the capitol, he dreams of nothing else but the silence; but when he arrives the portrait of his father that presides over the mantle piece seems to eye him with disdain.<br/>
<br/>
He slinks in through the kitchen door, and the dear old cook who had been making his porridge since he was barely knee high gives him a pitying look. He gives her a shrug and a smile, pretending they both do not know where he has been.<br/>
<br/>
He has a bath drawn.<br/>
<br/>
He sinks into the heat of it and sighs. He wonders when he had become so old. He wonders when his heart had begun to ache so. He slumps further down into the bath, and lets the thoughts float away, like the last of the leaves on the trees. He feels as though he’s barely blinked, but when next he opens his eyes the water feels frosty.</p><p><br/>
Whether it was the chill, or the clatter of polite foot steps, Sylvain looks up just as the maid rushes to his chambers; she does not even knock. She’s flustered, cheeks red from the run up the stairs and blonde hair fluffed around her face as she says, breathless.<br/>
<br/>
“Forgive me my lord, but he’s here - Lord Fraldar-”<br/>
<br/>
She does not get to finish before Sylvain has launched himself upright out of the tub. The maid’s face turns a shade deeper and quickly she closes the door without excusing herself. Sylvain cannot even think to apologise - he’s dressing before he’s dry, runs a wet hand through his hair to scrape the bedraggled mess into something serviceable, and pulls on some house shoes. He then holds himself steady, and refuses to run giddily down the stairs. He takes each step torturously slow. A full day into winter, and Felix turns up late to their unofficial, uncommunicated meeting? It was only fair to keep him waiting.<br/>
<br/>
He hears the murmur of voices from the kitchen, see’s the warmth of the hearth glowing. He shoulders his way through the door with the ease of a guardsman coming to the dining hall after hours, rather than the grace of the Margrave of house Gautier.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
There stands Felix.</p><p> </p><p><br/>
His long dark hair would run past his shoulders if he ever let it down; instead it’s pulled tight into a high ponytail. The firelight catches against the sharp line of his jaw and sparks warmth in the almond colour of his eyes - like melting, molten metal before it hits the flame. There’s a new scar down his cheek and that halts the smile Sylvain did not notice was spreading on his face.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
He realises Felix’s eyes have been resting on him all the same. The smug pull of his mouth gives it away.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
“Gautier,” he says in his deep, honey rich voice. He doesn’t roll his tongue over the sound of it like Sylvain wants - knows he can. Not yet, anyway.</p><p><br/>
“Lord Fraldarius,” Sylvain says back, weaving into the little dance of conversation - like they need to address each other with titles. Like they haven't been interwoven their whole lives.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
“You’re looking soft, old man,” Felix says appraisingly, raising a brow.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
“We can’t all live off the crusts of bread and spite alone,” Sylvain retorts with a laugh.<br/>
<br/>
“I <em> could </em> eat,” Felix muses, and at this point the cook is already turning round from the stove, a steaming bowl in hand.<br/>
<br/>
Cook always had a second sense for when someone was in need of a hot meal, and Sylvain couldn’t help but laugh. Felix smiles too, and that alone seems to set Sylvain’s heart alight. </p><p> </p><p>“Dinner, then?’ Sylvain gestures as though the cook’s actions had only come at his command.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m covered in grime from the road,” Felix scrunches his nose. He must have travelled far, and barely stopped if it had gotten to a point where even <em> he </em> would complain.<br/>
<br/>
“Besides, I heard these days you played the perfect Noble host - I fear the smell might make you lose your dainty appetite,” Felix chides. Sylvain clicks his tongue and lets the smouldering idea of a romantic dinner together go down in flames. Tired and travel weary as it was, seems the edge of Felix’s sarcasm hadn’t blunted in the least.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ll be taking dinner in the guest room, I assume?” Sylvain asks. </p><p> </p><p>“Only because I can’t take it in the bath.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not with that attitude!” </p><p> </p><p>Cook readies a tray of food for Felix, a bowl of steaming long simmered lamb stew with thick chunks of meat, carrots and peas. The bread was from this morning, but toasted atop the fire it is warm and crunchy and topped with a generous knob of butter. Slices of sharp, aged cheese, and raspberries from the brambles by the fence of the manor were added, to finish.</p><p> </p><p>Felix drops his usual brusqueness and thanks her with a familiarity that speaks of the time he has spent in the house, and how many years he returns. Right on time, Sylvain’s maid arrives to spirit away the tray to the chamber that is always prepared, just in case. Though he stays only for the winter, Sylvain thought of it as Felix’s room. Even when Sylvain played host, the chambers would be left closed off and undressed. </p><p> </p><p>“Shall I show myself in, Lord Gautier?” Felix couldn’t help another jab, a pointedness to his tone that is belied by the smirk on his lips. ‘It’s this way, right?’ </p><p> </p><p>As if he didn’t know.</p><p> </p><p>Sylvain rolls his eyes dramatically but Felix is already turning out the door, rudely missing his performance. </p><p> </p><p>Sylvain heaves a sigh. Cook pats his shoulder and passes him a bowl of the stew giving him a compassionate smile. Sylvain smiles back, but considers idly how large the soup pot above the fire is and wonders even if it was large enough,  if he could feasibly drown himself in soup anyway. He always forgets how hard it is to yearn so obviously. He seats himself in the least brooding way possible and throws down the least graceful spoonfuls of stew as he does - as if he could swallow down the shameful pity. </p><p> </p><p>And that, he guesses, is the end of their grand reunion. Slightly different to how he had envisioned - though perhaps wishing for Felix to leap into his arms and kiss him senseless was a bit much, especially in front of Cook. He heaves a languorous sigh and nearly chokes on a pea. He still felt giddy all the same, though whether from a blocked windpipe or exposure to Felix he could not say.<br/>
<br/>
It would be a lie to say he didn’t love it, though. The chase - the back and forth tug as they tip toe round words unspoken. He shoves a piece of toast into his mouth wholly to distract from the ridiculous grin attempting to pull up his lips. </p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>After eating with far too many pitying glances from the staff and not nearly enough Felix, Sylvain retires to his bedchamber. He has been distracted that afternoon with thoughts of Felix’s arrival that the missives he was due to send the King had been abandoned for longing stares out the window. Content with the knowledge Felix was <em> home </em> at last (to think it alone sent a warmth coursing through him), Sylvain makes the effort to at least pen something. Dimitri had never commented on the quality of his reports; but he did tend to pen extensive letters back in excruciatingly neat hand that Sylvain <em> knew </em> he spent far too long on.<br/>
<br/>
Unfortunately for the Margrave, his writing desk has been dragged close to the fire, and the warmth of it is decidedly too comforting. It lulls him to sleepiness and he finds his hands wandering, grasping his cup of wine simply to drag his focus anywhere but the door. </p><p> </p><p>The aged berry wine is nearly half gone by the time the heavy oaken chamber door peels open. He is like a shadow as he slips in - years of training kept Felix light on his toes. He was so silent he may have gone undetected if Sylvain hadn’t been expecting him. </p><p> </p><p>‘You haven’t changed,’ he laughs, glad to drop any pretence of using his quill. In many small ways, Felix was still the boy skirting Rodrigue Fraldarius’ stringent rules to sneak out and play.<br/>
<br/>
But he has grown slightly more brazen. As Felix crosses the room, he seems to hesitate for only a moment before his hand comes to rest against the stubble on Sylvain’s cheek. His thumb brushes against his cheekbone with a tenderness Sylvain had forgotten he could possess. He was a cat that was all claws - on rare occasions Felix remembers how to retract them.<br/>
<br/>
“You have,” Felix remarks, almost distant. Behind his eyes Sylvain can almost see the ghost of the youth he had once been.<br/>
<br/>
He nuzzles his face against Felix’s hand, and delights in the way Felix’s face screws up from having his hand grated by stubble.<br/>
<br/>
“Not in any way that matters,” Sylvain says. “Not in how I feel about you.”<br/>
<br/>
Felix’s eyes widen, just a touch. His guard lowered from their usual repartee, he almost looked vulnerable. In many ways, the things between them are as they always have been - unspoken. Felix never asks to stay for a season. He never wrote a letter, announcing he would come.<br/>
<br/>
He never spoke it, but Sylvain knew in the way Felix would slip into his bed every night he was there, the bed prepared for him by the maids never touched. Would lean into his touch when they were alone together. The weight of many responsibilities came to rest on Margrave Gautier, but the lightest of all was Felix; chin hooked over his shoulder, breath a gentle rise and fall against his cheek.<br/>
<br/>
Sylvain is impatient; after a life of never being truthful, just here, just once he wishes he could be.<br/>
<br/>
But he notes the slight tension in the set of Felix’s shoulders - so he serves him an easy exit from gentleness. He flashes a wicked grin, and gives him an ostentatious wink. Felix gives a snort of disdain and drops his hand.<br/>
<br/>
Sylvain can feel the heat of where the touch has lingered. It burns warmer than the fire from the hearth. He longs to be closer, but instead he leans back in his chair, hand finding the berry wine he had been sipping at before Felix entered. Felix had turned from him - his gaze cast distant and into the flames. </p><p> </p><p>Sylvain pours wine into the second glass he has prepared. The bottle is significantly lighter by now - curse letters to Kings and all the stress that went with them. </p><p> </p><p>‘So,’ he begins, passing the glass to Felix. ‘The Banshee Blade.’</p><p> </p><p>Felix pauses with his wine glass to his lips.</p><p> </p><p>‘I wasn’t aware that name had spread as far as here.’ </p><p> </p><p>Felix had built up a reputation over the years as a sword for hire. A beast with his weapon he’d risen to almost legendary heights as a swordsman to whom no one could compare. Across the land as he travelled, tales of his heroic deeds spread and each town had its own name to remember him by. Sylvain enjoys sharing what stories have reached him each time Felix visits. In Mateus <em> The Cindered Blade </em> defeated a vicious group of rampaging marauders. Past the lands of Arundel, they swore <em> Fraldarius the Fearless </em> walked alone into the mountains and returned uninjured with the severed head of a demonic beast, terrorising the town below. And in the farming villages past the long tilled Grondor field, swore a black beast known simply as <em> Midnight Panther </em>roamed the night, striking down those unfaithful to the crown. This, Felix assured him, was a misunderstanding. </p><p> </p><p>In the house of Gautier, they say Felix Fraldarius has a huge strap. </p><p> </p><p>Felix did not need to hear that one.</p><p> </p><p>‘You know how news travels,’ Sylvain says, grinning cheekily. </p><p> </p><p>‘Are you begging <em> me </em> for gossip from the towns.’ </p><p> </p><p>Felix always knew how to best deliver a targeted strike. </p><p> </p><p>‘I would never. If anything, the towns come to <em> me </em> for gossip,’ Sylvain corrects, as he leans into a conspiratorial distance. Hilda also supplied him generously, upon his visits to Fhirdiad - but it was an age since he has visited and all the most interesting tales have long since gone stale. He affects the tone of someone passing information in a tavern. ‘ <em> I </em> heard he goes by <em> The Velvet Thunder.’ </em></p><p> </p><p>Felix’s eyes widen. </p><p> </p><p>‘If I find out you were in fact the one who coined that disaster, I will end you,’ Felix says without a shred of humour. But that just makes Sylvain laugh despite himself. </p><p> </p><p>“You wound me Felix - truly, has your opinion of me dropped so low as to imagine I would decry such things?” Sylvain can only manage a look of abject betrayal for so long, before his mouth curves into a smug smile.  “Besides, if you end me, you’ll never know the truth,” He dangles the thought and lays a sly wink on his begrudging drinking companion.</p><p> </p><p>Felix does not deign to answer or to end him and instead deals glares at him sidelong, taking a draught of the wine. Sylvain distracts himself by curling a loose piece of Felix’s fringe around his finger - his hair was so soft and thick. He smelt clean and like Sylvain’s soap - it was a simple honey goatmilk blend the maid made on the grounds, but in winter is was so warming. Felix probably hated it - anything sweet he had no taste for. But Sylvain realises he’s been distracted too long, and quickly drops his hand.</p><p> </p><p>‘So tell me,’ Sylvain says. ‘Was the story of you single handedly defending the gates of Myrddin true? I heard the horde before you was an army amassed of angry ex-Empire soldiers.’</p><p> </p><p>‘Hardly,’ Felix replies. ‘They were soldiers long in the tooth, looking for some final trouble before they retired. Unfortunately for them, that began sooner rather than later.’</p><p> </p><p>Sylvain raises a brow. “All the way in the old Leicester Alliance territory?”</p><p> </p><p>Felix was not easy with information about his life, but Sylvain relished in drawing responses out of him with careful prodding and questioning. Like this he was able to learn about Felix’s travels through the lands that had once been the Leicester Alliance - now sworn to the joint Blaiddyd-Riegan crown. His visit with Mercedes and Annette, who he had stayed with while resting briefly in Garreg Mach. Then onward he went, braving the snowy tops of the mountain ridge that rose across Fodlan like the arching spine of a sleeping dragon, splitting off the Old Kingdom lands.</p><p> </p><p>‘Sounds a long and fraught journey,” Sylvain observes idly, gaze cast down at the dregs of his glass. </p><p> </p><p>He hears the bristling in Felix’s tone as he responds, “Hardly. I don’t need you worrying like some handkerchief wringing maiden,” He snorts. “Do you doubt the strength of my arm? Not all of us have turned to an indolent life.”</p><p> </p><p>Sylvain hefts a sigh. Time for another angle.<br/>
<br/>
“Not at all Felix - we could use your help, you know,” The words are tired even as Sylvain trots them out - it is the conversation they must have every time. As he clinks the other glass down on the table, Felix turns to take it - but Sylvain can see the tension in his shoulders.<br/>
<br/>
“Everyday on the border of Sreng there are skirmishes - we could use your expertise-”<br/>
<br/>
“You can pay for it,” Felix notes, taking a sip of his wine.<br/>
<br/>
“You would get a wage from the crown,” counters Sylvain cordially. Felix snorts again.<br/>
<br/>
“I will work with the Boar King when the kingdom crumbles to rumble around him, and he returns to the woods he crawled out of,” He takes an almost aggressive gulp of his wine, swallowing it sourly.  “But I doubt it will happen. Ever since he courted that Almyran princeling, he has been tempered. Maybe leashed is a better word.” </p><p> </p><p>Felix shrugs like he doesn’t care, but his expression has softened, just slightly. He sharpens it back to his usual knife-edge scowl.<br/>
<br/>
“I spat upon the life of a noble,’ he continues. ‘I will not be a dog at the whims of court’s and kings, Sylvain.”<br/>
<br/>
Sylvain muses at the concept of Felix on a collar and leash. He tries very carefully to school his face to something resembling sensible. He nods and sips his wine agreeably to cover the chuckle in his throat.<br/>
<br/>
“Can you blame me for asking you to change?”<br/>
<br/>
“You should learn to live life as it is,” Felix says simply as he turns, looking back into the fire. That is how he’s lived his whole life, Sylvain knows. He wants the words not to feel like the short, sharp jab to his heart that they are.<br/>
<br/>
“I shall relish every moment of it then,” Sylvain all but purrs as he pushes himself upright, glass abandoned. He closes the distance of the few steps between them and wraps his arms around Felix’s middle, squeezing a little surprised grunt out of him. He pulls the swordsman tight against his chest, tucking his head over the shorter man’s shoulder and avoiding the puff of his wild blackberry hair. It was pulled back in a hurried and scruffy bun after his bath, in a style reminiscent of their monastery days. Sylvain contents himself with holding him like this for just a moment, before nuzzling his face against Felix’s.<br/>
<br/>
“..Scratchy,” is all Felix manages, but he doesn’t shove him off and he snaps no biting remark. He seems to loosen himself a little - the lean muscles of him unspooling like a loose piece of thread. He leans back into the sturdy weight of Sylvain, revelling in the warmth of him like a cat stretching out in the sun. </p><p> </p><p>Sylvain smiles. Then he presses a quick kiss to Felix’s jaw. Then another to his shoulder.<br/>
<br/>
Then he cannot help himself; he nips him just at the joint of the neck and shoulder and Felix shudders against him for a moment. Then he is a flurry of action - wriggling and spinning to face Sylvain, still encircled tightly in his arms. </p><p> </p><p>“You. Are. Incorrigible,” Felix bites out each word, using Sylvain’s surprise to push him back far enough that his ass bumps the edge of the table. </p><p> </p><p>Felix puts his glass down roughly and leans his face in close to Sylvain’s.<br/>
<br/>
“I’ve only been here half an evening,” he hisses, and Sylvain can smell the wine on his breath. “And already you’re slobbering all over me.” </p><p> </p><p>Sylvain can feel the ghost of Felix’s mouth against his as he speaks, and his attention is drawn to his lips. The wine has coloured them cherry red and it’s all he can focus on. </p><p> </p><p>‘Do you think,’ Felix continues, prickles of frustration edging into his voice. “You could keep it in your pants for one night?”</p><p> </p><p>Sylvain is a little too focussed on the movement of his lips to attend to his words. The helping of wine he’d enjoyed before Felix had arrived was decent and it was turning all his thought warm and muddy as slushed snow. Oh how it felt to have Felix here again, body close, lips closer. He’d missed and craved it for what felt like years, eons. He longed to let his hands wander the length of Felix’s body, and found, as if on their own, they drifted from hip to waist, up his back and down again. His touch was feather light but he marvelled at the feeling of him; taut and strong as a pulled back bow. But so slight - Sylvain knew it was foolish, but the size of him made him feel all the more protective.</p><p> </p><p>‘Sylvain,’ Felix warns, pulling away slightly and giving him a mighty glare that would have chilled his blood if Sylvain had actually seen it. But his eyes are too focused on his lips, his mind occupied with the idea of kissing him. </p><p> </p><p>Sylvain dips his head forward, until their foreheads touch. </p><p> </p><p>‘I’ve missed you,’ he drawls with an honesty he hadn’t intended to admit. The earnestness seems to disarm Felix and for a moment the tension is gone from his shoulders, eyes wide and looking into Sylvain’s. There’s something in the look that Sylvain can’t ignore, and, unable to hold himself back any longer, he kisses him. His lips take Felix’s hungrily, <em> oh </em> how he had yearned for this. The soft familiar feeling of Felix’s mouth under his. Sylvain presses in deeply.</p><p> </p><p>This time when he’s shoved back the desk rattles with the force. One of the wine glasses tips and cherry red spills over the edge, dripping to the floor. There’s a wild look in Felix’s eyes as he leans back in Sylvains embrace, hands planted on his shoulders as if to put as much distance between them as possible. </p><p> </p><p>Sylvain drops his arms immediately. </p><p> </p><p>‘I-I cannot,’ Felix begins. His breath catches in his throat before he forces out in a rush, ‘I cannot do this.’</p><p> </p><p>If he could Sylvain would’ve stepped, jumped, leapt backwards. Crossed to the other side of the room to give Felix the space he needed but he was up against the desk and when Felix moves away to seek the distance he needs on his own terms there is nothing Sylvain can do to stop him walking straight out the door. </p><p> </p><p>‘Wait--’ he calls, reaching out an arm impotently. </p><p> </p><p>But it’s too late. </p><p> </p><p>Felix has fled.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sylvain is rudely awakened, in more ways than one. Things get a little hot and bothered, and finally perhaps they have a moment to think.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Against the better advice of mine sweet beta-reader Ren, I am posting this now because to know what happens next and not let ya'll know immediately is truly a crime. Slightly shorter than the last, but action packed! I hope you enjoy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sylvain awakens on the second morning of winter alone, half twisted out of his sheets, and shivering. There is a loud rapping at his door far more insistent than his maid would ever brave to do.<br/><br/>His eyelids seem to grind open in darkness - he had barely slept, and they were sandy and unfocussed. He could not fall asleep after Felix left him, had poured over each piece of their interaction wondering where he had pushed and asked too far. Terrified he had torn the precarious peace of their existence. He had been too hungry for it, too desperate and he had devoured it whole. Perhaps it served him right - he had played with hearts his whole life. It was only fair his own deserved to be torn asunder.<br/><br/>He pushes himself upright and stumbles, blearily to the door.<br/><br/>His eyes fall to Felix, barely more than a darkened outline.<br/><br/>Something hard is shoved rough against his bare chest, smacking him squarely in the collarbone before he can clumsily get his hands up to catch it.<br/><br/>“Courtyard. Now,”are the snapped instructions given to him. “And put a shirt on,” Is the final disgusted remark as the stark shape of Felix turned, stalking down the hallway with a murderous sort of purpose.<br/><br/>“And a fine morning to yourself as well, dear!” Sylvain manages to call down the hallway with all the hoarse voiced cheer he could muster. He could never stop digging the hole half way - better to jump all the way down the pit, his stupid mouth seemed to think. </p><p> </p><p>He already knew what Felix had shoved in his hands, but he takes it into his room, eying the old practice sword. He was more adept with a lance, but he knew how to handle a sword; all children of Faerghus did, after all. He places it on his writing desk, before going to his drawers.<br/><br/>It takes him barely a moment to dress, pulling on an older white linen shirt and some comfortable pants. He pulls the length of his hair back into a scrappy bun - the shortish bits stick out the bottom, but it keeps the weight of it from his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>The cool brush of the waking dawn begins with a grey foggy glow through his half drawn curtains, and it laps softly behind him as he finally makes his way down the grand staircase. The eyes of years of Margrave Gautier’s before him peer down from their painted portraits, stern and imperious.<br/><br/>Happy, probably with wives and children and families strong in their crest - and aware of their heavenly burden, handed down with much gratitude from the Goddess.<br/><br/>They did not chase dark haired swordsmen through the dim corridors of their empty manor’s at barely the crack of dawn, he would bet.<br/><br/>No, they had slid happily into their place and settled. They probably attained such lofty goals in their youth, and probably blew through as many wives just to chase the illusive glory of crest bearing children.<br/><br/>A fine legacy, he thought bitterly.</p><p>It would end with him.</p><p>He tries to stop the smile that edges at the corners of his mouth. </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>The cool of winter prickles his skin to gooseflesh as he passes the old wooden door to the courtyard that rests just beyond the grand entrance, and out to the yard behind the house. Fitting for a Faerghus Noble to have their training yard at the heart of their manor.<br/><br/>He wishes he had spent a moment longer to grab a tunic or vest - something a little sturdier than plain linen. The chill sinks straight to his bones as he spots Felix.<br/><br/>Already he was at work - he wasn’t in his travel clothes either, but the black cropped sleeved tunic he wore beneath. He is still as a striking snake - darting to land <em> clak! clak! clak! </em> three sharp blows against the unmoving form of the training dummy. It shudders for a moment from the force of the impact.<br/><br/>He turns as Sylvain steps closer, and raises the tip of his sword at him, lifting his head.<br/><br/>He doesn’t speak but the challenge is obvious. Sylvain simply nods - fixing his slack grip on the training weapon and pulling the sword upright into an easy fighting stance.</p><p><br/><br/>Then Felix is upon him, like lightning.<br/><br/>He slams his wooden sword hard enough against Sylvain’s that it nearly jolts out of his hands - Sylvain keeps his grip ( <em> barely </em> ) and twists it, sending Felix’s sword sliding off.<br/><br/>This halts him only a moment. Felix switches his footing, agile as a cat and brings the sword sweeping back round lower, aiming for Sylvain’s abdomen.<br/><br/>Sylvain catches this too and he knows he cannot wait any longer; he pushes forward himself, using the brute strength of his lance trained arms to strike Felix back. He grits his teeth as he sends the smaller swordsman back one step, and then another.<br/><br/>He sees Felix furrow his brows, picturing his best reprise. That’s all the warning he gets before Felix jabs a neat hit. It snuck up under Sylvain’s guard and pokes the centre of his chest. Sylvain sucks a quick breath in to keep from being winded and backs up. This is just what Felix wanted - he rains a flurry of precision hits, neatly tapping across Sylvain’s arms and shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>All he can do is raise a forearm, guarding his face.<br/><br/>As Felix closes in on him, Sylvain abandons hope of parrying with his sword.</p><p><br/><br/>Instead, he hooks an ankle round Felix’s leg and in one swift movement, yanks him over. ‘<em>Ass over tea kettle,</em>’ he thinks to himself quite proudly.</p><p><br/><br/>“Dastard!” Comes the strangled, surprised cry of his ill-fated sparring partner.</p><p> </p><p>Sylvain does not turn back. He knows he has only a short window of opening - so he books it, lunging for the edge of the court yard, sweat dripping down his brow into his eyes. On the wall is a small array of weapons and Sylvain throws down the practice sword in favour of a blunted staff. He yanks it from the wall and spins in one smooth motion, just as Felix bears down on him. Sylvain is surprised to see snow dusting his side from where he fell - the Margrave hadn’t noticed how fast it was coming in. By evening, they might even be snowed in.<br/><br/>Felix does not give him time to ponder it; the whipcrack of his sword as it slams the middle of the staff is strong as ever. Sylvain grunts a little from the impact –  feels it shudder down the length of the staff and fizzle up into his elbow– but shoves him back easily enough. They fall into it again, the back and forth rhythm and sway of the battle - though this time, slightly better matched. </p><p> </p><p>Sylvain enjoys the reprieve from the barrage of blows with the distance his staff gives; at first, Felix must circle him, cautious and spitting as a cornered cat. It is not long before he twists and turns his way up and under Sylvain’s guard; but in turn, Sylvain beats him back with his own pointed jabs and winding ripostes. As much as the pin point of Felix’s false blade tries to find a point to prick, Sylvain keeps a liquid sort of movement that flows from years of practice and instinct. His arms burn and even with his hair tied back it seems to find a way to straggle free; thankfully most of it seems stuck to his face with sweat. Even if Felix doesn’t pant as obviously, he can tell he too is beginning to tire, and he relishes the feeling as a small victory.<br/><br/></p><p>The sun has crept up over the horizon, painting them both in the barest butter yellow before Felix finally manages to triumph. Beating back the unsteady waver of the spears blunt end, he sends Sylvain’s staff spinning through the air and the force of the blow sends Sylvain tumbling backwards.</p><p><em> Where had he been saving such strength?! </em> Sylvain hardly has time to think, as Felix’s neat final blow sends him toppling over completely, and he hits the ground, <em> hard.  </em></p><p><br/>The pain of it shoots sharp up his tail bone and he lets himself flop all the way back, smarting both his body and his pride, just a touch. Felix doesn’t falter - his neat steps fall either side of Sylvain’s waist, and the point of his wooden sword sits at his throat. The edge of it taps Sylvain’s chin, and with a snort Sylvain manages, “I yield!” <br/><br/></p><p>He doesn’t bother to try and wiggle free, or push himself upright - there is something a little dizzying in having Felix stand over him like this, sword drawn. His dark undershirt sticks to him with sweat, and the rise and fall of his chest is rapid as a birds. Sylvain’s muscles seem to sing from the work, alive and pumping and sending an almost lightheaded ringing in his ears. It had been a long time since he had fought dismounted. It had been a long time since he’d had an opponent so well trained. It didn’t help that they had battled against each other their whole lives, so it was hard to surprise one another. Sparring became more a dance of well worn steps than the practice of sharpening his skills. He didn’t mind in the least - just being close like this, being dishevelled and messy and wild.. It felt good.</p><p><br/>“I’ll be covered in bruises this time tomorrow,” he notes cheerfully, though he can already feel the sting. He blinks to clear his vision, to see Felix’s offered hand. Trying not to feel the lurch of his heart up into his throat, he takes it.</p><p><br/><br/>Before he can think better of it, Sylvain blurts; “About last night, I’m s-”<br/><br/>Felix interjects. </p><p><br/>“<em>I’m</em> sorry. I was.. Overwhelmed,” He casts his gaze aside, staring intently at the dirt.<br/><br/></p><p>“I am unused to such ...closeness. Sometimes, I feel I must learn it all again,” Felix’s face was flushed and sweaty from their sparring, but Sylvain thinks his cheeks get even ruddier. Felix’s brows are drawn, like saying any of this is akin to scraping himself across hot coals. It felt the most vulnerable Felix been, since... Perhaps one dark night, in the Monastery when he had spoken of his brother.</p><p>They had talked about the future, too. Sylvain can barely remember the dreams they had mumbled to each other half asleep and weary. He wonders how many came true.<br/><br/><br/>“I took my... discomfort out on you. I am... trying to work on this.” It is a struggle to get the words out but finally, he looks up. There is something very raw and delicate in the way he holds Sylvain’s gaze. Their hands had fallen apart from when Felix tugged him upright, but Sylvain wanted so badly just to clasp them.<br/><br/><br/>“It’s ok! Really. You have nothing to apologise for,” Sylvain rushes to say, the welling of his guilt from last night feeling like a fist clenched tight round his throat. And because he has never once, in his life, managed to be genuine he adds.<br/><br/><br/>“I guess I’m a glutton for punishment. That must be why I let you beat me at this every time.” He winks on pure instinct, gesturing to where his staff lay forgotten across the courtyard.<br/><br/><br/>Felix sighs, and snowflakes catch in the dark of his eyelashes. He’s scowling at Sylvain’s feet again.<br/><br/><br/>“I wish things were as they were at the Monastery. It was.. Easier then. We didn’t need to talk.”<br/><br/><br/>Sylvain’s smile turns just a little strained.<br/><br/><br/>“We didn’t talk, no,” he concedes, with a shrug. </p><p><br/>“But we’re older now. Talking is how we work things out.” He gives a mirthless chuckle.<br/><br/><br/>“Perhaps that’s what it means to grow old.”<br/><br/><br/>Felix sniffs. Just like when they were sparring, Sylvain can see him turn and twist the thought around, considering it.</p><p><br/>“Perhaps you are right,” He admits. There is a warmth creeping back into his voice.<br/>“Perhaps I am long overdue some talking.” And, finally, Felix smiles.<br/><br/>Sylvain cannot help but beam back.</p><p><br/>“No time like the present, eh?”<br/><br/></p><p>It is at this moment his stomach chooses to loudly growl, recalcitrant that he had been awake for what felt like hours and had been training for most of it.<br/><br/>Sylvain gives a short, sheepish laugh.<br/><br/>“But, uh first what about some breakfast?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Important end note: Not sure how many of them come up in this chapter, but more will, so let it be known here and now - yes all the Blue Lions are gay, no I don't make the rules, thats just how it is. </p><p>I also literally CANNOT stand cliff hangers I'm TOO anxious for that (but also, I do like them just a little) so please rest assured I am editing and perfecting the second chapter as we SPEAK. </p><p>Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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